


As the Hills of Stone

by amyfortuna



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Loyalty Kink, M/M, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-18 07:17:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4697093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fingon is happy to provide whatever his father needs of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As the Hills of Stone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EdgeOfLight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdgeOfLight/gifts).



"You look so much like your mother," Fingolfin said idly as Fingon unwound the gold from his braids, setting the waves of his hair loose. Fingon paused briefly, looking across the room at his father, draped in his chair in their private rooms within the palace at Barad Eithel, relaxed from the wine they had been drinking earlier. 

Those words were something of a signal, the start of a familiar game; Fingon could feel warmth rising up inside him, desire and affection all tangled together, wrong but so sweet. 

Setting the last of the gold clasps aside, he crossed the room quickly and sank to his knees between Fingolfin's spread legs. His father's eyes were closed; "Anairë," he muttered longingly as Fingon reached for him. 

\----

It had begun on the Ice, in the midst of the darkness and the cold. The first night out on the true Helcaraxë, with the freezing darkness under them, over them, around them, Fingon had made his way to his father's tent, determined and steadfast, drawn by devotion and devastation at the same time. 

Crawling inside, he found Fingolfin lying alone, staring fixedly into nothing, tears seeping from his eyes. It was cold enough in the tent that frost clung to his hair and eyelashes. 

"Father," Fingon said, brushing some of the frost out of Fingolfin's hair, and wiping the tears away from Fingolfin's face with his thumbs. He wanted to cry himself, but in face of his father's grief, his own seemed easier to bear. Fingolfin slowly roused from the dream state he had been caught in, and clung to Fingon wordlessly, hand in his hair, lips pressed against his neck, shaking with sobs. "I'm here. I won't leave you, I promise. I can be whatever you need." 

Fingolfin drew back after a moment, looking ashamed, wiping the tears from his eyes, and trying to smile. "I should not be so weak," he said. "But I long for - I need -, " his voice broke, and he dropped his eyes. His gaze drifted to the fall of Fingon's hair, where it curled in dark waves like that of his mother and unlike Fingolfin's own stick-straight hair. And suddenly Fingon understood. 

"Close your eyes," he said, and Fingolfin obeyed silently, relaxing against Fingon. Moved by a desire he could not quite name, he bent and kissed Fingolfin the way he had seen his mother kiss his father - very slow, tender, and sweet, all soft breath and warm lips. Fingolfin let out a breathless _ohhh_ , expressions of delight and shame chasing themselves over his face. His eyelashes fluttered, and Fingon laid a hand on his head. "Keep your eyes closed." 

Fingon noticed his own arousal as a secondary thing, less important than keeping control of the gentle kisses he was pressing onto his father's lips, less necessary than the hand he sent wandering over his father's body, teasing a nipple into hardness, stroking down to Fingolfin's hip. Touching his father like this was was intoxicating, heady like good wine, all the sweetness and the bitterness combining. 

Fingon took a deep breath, pressed his mouth to Fingolfin's once more, and closed a hand over Fingolfin's erection.

\------

It was easy enough to push his father's robes up to his thighs and lick at his cock, take it into his mouth, and suck strongly. Fingon, with the ease of long practice, took him deep, as Fingolfin shuddered violently, pressing forward, a hand woven into his hair. The empty wineglass in his other hand swung from listless fingers and finally dropped soundlessly onto the thick rug beneath the chair, not breaking. 

For over three hundred years now this had been the way of it, always secret, always desired. Fingon threw himself into being everything his father needed and wanted: the bold and valiant captain of his armies, the loyal and obedient prince in the courts, and in the dark of night, in his father's bedroom, this. Valinor seemed a faint, faraway dream, and he held firm to the promise made all those years ago, in the midst of the Ice, surrounded by the cold, pouring his heat into his beloved father, his dearest king. 

Fingon sucked firmly, bringing his father to climax swiftly and efficiently, swallowing his essence down. Fingolfin shook with the force of it, eyes still closed, his head back against the chair, dazed and boneless, dreaming. Fingon sat back on his haunches, hand reaching into his leggings, staring at the wreck of his father - robes pushed up and strong white thighs exposed, cock lying gleaming and limp between them, and worked his hand hard over his own cock, panting wordlessly. His orgasm was a quiet thing but no less forceful for that, painting the inside of his leggings with his seed, murmuring _tatanya_ under his breath, for his own pleasure rather than Fingolfin's. 

Once done, he carefully lowered Fingolfin's robes back down to cover him, stood up, and kissed his forehead tenderly. "Good night, father," he said, a slight hint of formality entering his tone. 

Fingolfin opened his eyes and smiled gently. "You are too good to me, my lovely son," he said, and Fingon laughed, catching up one of Fingolfin's hands and pressing a kiss to the wrist. This was something new, outside of their game, and Fingon felt a little exposed in it, almost too vulnerable. 

"It is my pleasure, as always," he said, and turned to go, but Fingolfin's hand caught once more at his wrist, holding him there. 

"You do not have to go." 

Fingon gave him a smile, the kindest and sweetest of smiles. "But I always do." 

Fingolfin shook his head. "And yet you would prefer to stay. You have given me so much of yourself and asked for so little in return." His eyes fell to the spreading damp at the front of Fingon's leggings. "I may be blind, but I am not deaf, and you have been calling out for me for years unheard." He took a deep breath and pulled Fingon into his lap. Fingon willingly fell against him, twining his arms around his neck, resting his head on Fingolfin's shoulder. "It is time you received the recompense I owe you for your faithfulness. It is mine to repay pleasure with pleasure, to give you what you want at last." 

Fingon shivered a little as Fingolfin initiated a kiss, pressing into his mouth, warm and needy. It was the fulfilment of so many dreams, lying here in his father's arms, for once not being expected to do anything but relax and enjoy what was being done to him. 

After a few moments and kisses, Fingolfin stood, lifting Fingon easily and carrying him to the bed. Laying him down gently, Fingolfin tugged both their clothes off, Fingon laughing and helping from his prone position. Once they were both naked, Fingolfin crawled into bed beside his son and kissed him again, fingers twining into his hair. 

"You gave up so much for me," he whispered at last into Fingon's ear, "and asked for so little in return. You could have had a wife, a lover, children."

"I did not desire a wife," Fingon said, "nor children. And I have not felt that I lacked for love. Do you think I did not do what I desired to, out on the Ice? I have loved only one being in all of Arda enough for that -" he placed his hand on Fingolfin's cheek, drawing him down near enough to kiss, "- and it is he whose bed I am in just now. My love for you burns like a fire and yet is steadfast like these hills of stone. I will never abandon you, never betray you, never turn from you, and if some great grief should part us, whether me from you, or you from me, I will do my duty and wait for our reunion."

Fingolfin could not speak then, but kissed him, and the warmth in it was that of a fire on the hearth. 

"Even your love cannot save me from my fate," he said at last, laying his head down on Fingon's shoulder. "The footsteps of Doom approach, and though they are distant yet, I hear them always." 

"And even yours cannot save me," Fingon answered. "For my own Doom lies not far behind yours, unshakeable, rising like a wave, Doom Unescapable." He sighed and put his arms around Fingolfin, holding him close. "But for now, let us not think on Doom, but on comfort and joy, here and now. That which must be will be." 

"I always did say you were wise, my love," Fingolfin said with a soft chuckle. "Sleep now, and so will I, and we shall face tomorrow the bolder for it." 

Fingon smiled. "And bolder we shall be, for courage we will surely need, in all the days to come."


End file.
